Author's Note: So... I am done with this. This is the end. Sorry for focusing so much on Cutler in the beginning. And sorry for the rushed, sappy ending. But I'm tired of apologizing, so I'm just going to leave it at that.

"It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare." -- Mark Twain

Chapter Nine

"Stop!" Cutler yelled, as he chased the stumbling, bleeding man running away from the building. He, too, was exhausted and limping, and his pain medication was wearing off so he began to feel the searing pain in his right leg. Lucky for him, he was left handed, and he kept his gun trained on the suspect. He had seen the suspect bolt out of the factory while he had waited for Brass and Sara in the car and knew he couldn't just sit there and watch him get away. So, in pain, he had stumbled out of the car to pursue the suspect.

In any other scenario, it would have been amusing, to watch two wounded men slowly running down the street. Finally, however, the suspect couldn't run any further and he fell to his knees, looking back at Cutler wearing a Bill Clinton mask.

Cutler caught up to him and glared down, breathing heavily as he lowered his gun, which had become to heavy to carry. Clinton fell to his knees and rolled onto his back as he looked up at Cutler with dark eyes behind his plastic mask. Cutler noticed that his right arm was in a tattered sling, and he was bleeding from his left shoulder.

"Didn't I shoot you before?" Cutler panted.

The man in the mask did not reply. Instead, before Cutler could even pull out his cuffs, he seized a small knife from the inside of his boot and stabbed upwards, into Cutler's stomach.

June 4th, 1980

Max Cutler had always been a man of principals. Ever since he was eight years old, when his father drilled into him the clear-cut difference between right and wrong. Before that day, he had been the most troublesome nuisance to his teachers and his friends. And then came the day when Roger Cutler had finally had enough.

His voice boomed inside the large suburban home. "Maxwell!"

He had been sneaking into the kitchen at the time, trying to steal the peanut butter in the fridge so he could use it as shampoo when he washed the dog, like his mother told him to do. But upon hearing his father, he had dropped the jar onto the floor. He froze, hoping his father wouldn't find him, but then he heard the deep voice again and it sent shivers down his spine.

"Maxwell Lazarus Cutler, get in here right now!"

Max knew it. His dad had finally found the bike.

Slowly, he dragged his feet across the kitchen floor and into the living room, and then moved slowly across the carpet, picking up static electricity as he begrudgingly made his way to the garage, where his father, the executioner, was waiting. He gripped the doorknob and slowly turned it before moving like molasses through the frame. He saw his father, standing behind the red and orange racing bike with his hands on his hip as he glared at his youngest son.

"What the hell is this?" his father rumbled, his voice like thunder in the echoing garage.

"It's a... it's a bike," Max mumbled, stating the obvious.

"Whose bike, Max," his father said, gruffly. "I never bought this for you."

Max squirmed under his father's scrutiny. "I know..." he muttered nervously.

"Then whose bike is it, Maxwell?"

Max began fiddling with his pockets. "Henry Yuckstein's..." he muttered.

"That's a cruel nickname, Max, now tell me what his real name is," his father ordered.

"Eckstein. Henry Eckstein."

"So this is the bike the Ecksteins reported stolen last week?" Max's lips remained tightly pursed. "Answer me, son!"

"Yeah, I guess..." he murmured.

"You guess?" His father would not relent until Max fully confessed.

"OK, it is," Max finally blurted out. "We took it from him when he was in the park playing with his bugs. But he's a dork, Dad! He doesn't deserve a bike this cool!"

Roger Cutler's lips were straight as he kneeled down in front of his son and gripped his shoulders tightly. "Max, everyone you meet is deserving of your respect. It doesn't matter who or what they are. Especially boys like Henry Eckstein, who could use a friend or two. Now, I know you aren't as straight-laced as your brother, and a few high jinks in one's lifetime is perfectly normal. But there is a line that you cannot cross, son. It's one thing to throw water balloons at girls from your treehouse, but it is a crime to steal things. So you have two options, son. You can either go over to the Ecksteins yourself and return the bike personally and then ask Henry to come over and spend the night—"

"But Dad!"

"Or," his father continued sharply, "you can come with me down to the police station and stay in jail for a night."

Max's eyes doubled to the size of silver dollars. "I don't wanna go to jail!"

"Well you know that I'm good friends with Sheriff Hurley and I'm sure he would love to hear your side of the story. How you stole a bike from an unpopular kid—"

"OK, OK, I'll go over to the Ecksteins," Max mumbled. He moved over to the bike and gripped the handlebars, beginning to guide it out of the garage.

"And Max?" his father called, making Max stop and look at him. "If you ever do something illegal again, I will take it up with Sheriff Hurley and you will go to jail for longer than just a night. Do you understand?"

Max, his lower lip jutting out in a pout, slowly nodded as he turned his bike and guided it out of the garage and down the street to the Ecksteins.

In a year's time, Max and Henry would be best friends. In four year's time, Henry would die of leukemia. On that day, Henry's parents would ring the doorbell to Max's house and present him with Henry's old bike, which was a little worn and rusty now, but still as bright a red as the day Max had stolen it.

Max Cutler still kept that bike in his garage, all the way up to the day of his death.

February 14th, 2003

"Happy Valentine's Day," Nora cooed, peeking around the corner of Max's office.

He looked up and smiled at her as she presented him with a small box and pushed it across his desk.

"What's this?" he asked playfully as he took the box in his hand.

"Your present," she explained needlessly.

He opened his desk and fumbled inside of it with one hand. "And now I feel bad, I didn't get you anything... Oh... Oh wait, what's this I feel?" He pulled out two tickets. "Cirque du Soleil? Well, how on earth did these get here?"

Nora giggled and slid into a chair opposite Max's desk. "Oh Max, that will be so much fun! "Oh Max, that will be so much fun! But I told you, you didn't have to get me anything that extravagant! A pair of fake diamond earrings would have sufficed."

"Well, I know how much you love the dancing," he told her. "And I just couldn't resist. I love it when you're excited. That's when you get really touchy, and I know I'm going to score."

She rolled her eyes. "Open your present."

He did, expecting something basic like cufflinks, but his heart leapt into his throat and he lost all feeling in his fingers. A single brass key lay on the cotton inside of the box, her proposal clear. He immediately but the lid back on the box and shoved it back at her.

"Nora, I can't," he insisted, going pale.

"You can!" she returned. "Look, Max... I know it's a hard time for you, your father dying and everything, but to be fair I think it'll be good for you. I can't stand the thought of you alone in your apartment sulking all the time— and don't tell me that you don't sulk because I know you do."

He shook his head. "I'm not ready, Nora..." he said. "I think... maybe it's just too much."

Her face hardened and she reached out and took the box back. "Oh. I see. Well... I thought you'd be happy about it."

"I don't think we're at that stage in our relationship..."

"And when will we be?" Nora demanded. "We've been dating for three years, Max. I've been your partner for five." She rose to her feet, suddenly aggitated. "You know... Actually, I think Meyers wants me to work tonight. Something about a Columbian narcotics case..." She shoved her hands into her pockets. "How about you take Carrie to the cirque. You're sure to score with her, too," she added bitterly.

"Nora—"

"No," Nora said quickly. "No, Max... I'm done. I love you. And I can work with you. But I am tired of chasing you."

Max would always regret letting her walk out that door. Because though they had remained partners, and though they got along, he missed the taste of her lips, and the feel of her hands on his shoulders after a long day. And when he saw her lying there in Greg's apartment three years later, a part of him knew that it wasn't long before he followed her fate.

October 27th, 2007

Cutler dropped his gun and clutched at his stomach in shock, watching as the blood poured out onto his hands. The man who had stabbed him lay on his back and slowly removed his mask and Cutler saw the face of his killer for the very first time. It was the worn face of an older man whom Cutler had never seen before in his life, and yet it would be the very last face he would ever see. For some reason, he thought of Henry then, and how the twelve-year-old had shown no fear in the face of his impending death. He thought of Nora, who had died suddenly, with no time to show fear or distress. And then, he fell to his knees, unable to stand, his body haven taken too much damage to sustain him for any longer.

Still, Max Cutler was an FBI agent. And Max Cutler always hit his target.

With his last ounce of strength he latched onto his killer's hands and dug into his back pocket, pulling out his cuffs and latching them onto the man's wrist, as well as his own. That way, if the old man tried to run, he would be hindered by Cutler's dead weight.

He spluttered, blood gurgling up in his throat as he laid on the asphalt on his stomach, struggling to breathe. He closed his eyes, feeling it was time to sleep, and he was ready for bed. He blinked and saw his killer staring down at him with a cold expression, trying to yank his wrist out of the cuffs, but he had been shot, and Cutler had cuffed his wounded arm. The last thing Max Cutler saw was the surrender in his killer's eyes, knowing that there was no where left to run.

Max did not hear his name being called by a man who had seen him fall, nor did he hear the footsteps pounding against the pavement, because somewhere between the memories of Henry's bike and Nora's face, he had died.

"Dear God..." Sara breathed as she took in Nick's appearance.

"Don't talk, just get me the hell down from here!" Nick demanded. He looked at Brass. "There was a second guy. The blood on me isn't mine, it's his. I think Greg shot him."

Brass nodded as he looked at the blood trail leading out of the warehouse. "I'm on it." The detective turned to Sara. "You get him down. Fill him in," he said, and with that he darted out and after the suspect.

He hadn't run very far until he saw Max Cutler fall to his knees and reach for the suspect's struggling arm before cuffing him. Brass let out a scream, furious at Cutler for leaving the car when he had told the Agent to stay put. Although, Brass reasoned, I should have known better than to try and tell an FBI Agent what to do.

He picked up speed and saw the suspect patting down Cutler's body, searching for a key to unlock the cuffs so he could get away, but Brass put a stop to that. "Don't even try it," he warned, aiming his gun at the man.

The suspect raised the arm unattached to Cutler in an act of surrender.

"Drop the knife," Brass ordered, seeing the blood on it glint in the rising sun.

The suspect did as he was told and Brass kneeled down next to Cutler's body, feeling his neck for a pulse. But the detective found nothing.

He turned the agent over onto his shoulder and saw Cutler's glassy brown eyes staring at something Brass would never see. He reached out and reverently closed them with his hand. He bowed his head, taking a moment to respect the man whose last act had been to restrain a criminal.

He raised his head and opened his eyes, pulling out his own pair of cuffs and eying the criminal with raised eyebrows. "OK, buddy. You're coming with me."

Nick stumbled forward as the wires suspending him gave way and Sara caught him to make sure he didn't fall.

"Nick, what happened?" she asked as she helped him steady himself. "Did Greg really—"

"No," Nick panted, catching his breath. "Greg is a good guy, Sara. You should know that."

She felt almost as if he was accusing her. "I do," she insisted. "But when I saw him there in that mask, I..."

"Spiegelman tried to frame him for my murder," Nick explained. "Mine and... Grissom's."

Sara frowned. "Grissom isn't dead," she said.

Nick blinked. "He's not? But Spiegelman—"

"Is the bad guy," Sara finished for him with a smirk. "You should know that."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You gotta tell them to let Greg go. Spiegelman was rotten to the core, and Greg has no part of this."

"We'll sort it out," she told him. "I promise."

Nick used her shoulders to stable himself and then looked at her and sighed. "It's been a long, long day," he said.

She laughed. "The EMTs are outside waiting to check up on you."

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a little sore from being strung up there for so long."

"Either way," Sara insisted. "Humor me, would you?"

"Grissom's really not dead?" Nick sounded hopeful.

"He's recovering," Sara told him. "The medics got to him in time. But just a minute longer and... well, who knows." She paused. "But... well, Nick..."

"What is it?" Nick asked.

"A lot of people got hurt in that lab explosion," Sara explained. "Warrick and Catherine have some bad burns..."

"Will they be OK?" Nick's smile vanished.

"I think so," Sara said slowly. "Brass said they weren't near the worst of it."

"What are we gonna do now?" Nick asked as they walked out into the sunrise.

Sara took a deep breath. "We'll just... take one step at a time, alright?"

The white florescent lights buzzed above Greg's head as he stared up at the agent interrogating him with apathy.

"I told you everything I know," Greg repeated. "Spiegelman was dirty. How the hell else do you explain how Devon Anders ended up dead? Last I heard, Spiegelman was the only one other than me who knew he was the mole."

"Which only further implicates you, Mr. Sanders," the agent reminded him.

"I had to kill Spiegelman," Greg explained. "It was the only way to keep him from murdering Nick and dozens of other planned targets. The governor's place, for one."

"Well now that he is dead, you have no proof to support your claim."

"Let me put it this way," Greg said slowly, irritably. "Spiegelman knew Devon Anders was the mole. Spiegelman knew when Kincaid was suddenly murdered. Spiegelman wasn't available when I was attacked in my apartment two months ago. Spiegelman was the one who called in my betrayal right before I shot him. Would he have been so calm with a gun to his head? More than that, if I was a traitor, would I have even allowed him to make that call?"

"Spiegelman said you were threatening to kill Stokes," the agent said. "It wouldn't have been difficult to switch targets last second."

"OK," Greg said. "Then how about you ask Nick Stokes exactly what went down? He's alive right now because I shot Spiegelman."

"These are mighty accusations you're making, little man," the agent said condescendingly. "Spiegelman was a powerful man."

"Which is exactly why he was able to pull it off!" Greg exclaimed. "He has been covering his own tracks all this time!"

"Spiegelman hated the Chi Tsaran," the agent hissed. "His own daughter was slaughtered by them—"

"Yeah, because he killed her!" Greg yelled.

"How dare you!" the agent growled. "Julie Spiegelman was only twelve years old when she was flayed alive. It devastated Don, after his wife had died three years earlier!"

"Did you ever catch the member who did it?" Greg inquired.

"Yes, actually, Don—" He faltered. "Don managed to obtain a confession from the man that did it."

"You see what I mean? He's cleaning up after himself!" Greg cried. "Exactly how many members of the Chi Tsaran have confessed in the history of their existence?"

"Just two," the agent sighed. "Gerald Kemp and Andrew Kincaid."

"And the only reason Kincaid confessed was because I had cornered him with forensics," Greg reminded him. "Why did Kemp confess?"

The agent's phone buzzed on his hip. "Walter... Yeah, he's right here... What? You're kidding!... OK... OK, fine, thank you." He hung up and glared at Greg with malice. "You're free to go. It seems your friend Nick did vouch for you after all."

"Thank you!" Greg exclaimed, throwing his arms up. He rose to his feet and cast the agent a warning look. "Just because you've gotten Spiegelman and Sykes doesn't mean this is over. The Chi Tsaran has cells all over the nation."

"You let the FBI deal with that, Mr. Sanders," said the agent. "As of your death back in September, you are officially off this case."

Greg nodded. He never thought he would have been so glad to hear those words. "Good luck with breaking them," he said sincerely, and then he was gone.

Two Months Later...

Greg turned up his stereo and the choral music of Gloria! In Excelsis Deo drifted into the corners of his apartment. It had been a long time since he had gotten involved with the FBI and he hoped he would never have to again. Although, at times, he still had nightmares of men wearing plastic masks slowly stripping off his skin. Sometimes, the men would pull off the masks and Greg would be staring at himself.

But it was Christmas, and at this time of year Greg refused to think of such hideous thoughts. Leave that for Halloween, where it belongs, Greg thought to himself. He turned around and looked at his naked tree and then at the boxes that were scattered on his couch and coffee table. He looked at his watch. He checked on the cider. He chilled the champagne. He looked at his watch again. He waited.

By the time his stereo had made it four songs into the CD, someone finally knocked on his door and he grinned, making him spin around on his heal with a grin on his face as he opened it to see Nick and Sara. The former was smiling, while the latter looked a little haggard.

"Merry Christmas," Nick chimed.

Greg laughed. "Glad you guys could make it."

"So are we," said Sara. "The way our case was going, for a minute there..."

"She was ready to go home," Nick said. "I practically had to drag her here. 'Rick and Cath here yet?"

Greg shook his head no. "Grissom said he'd be a little late, though."

"We know," said Sara. "He's still on that case."

"What was so hard about it?" Greg asked.

"A little girl," Sara explained. "So close to Christmas. You understand."

Just as they were talking, Catherine and Warrick appeared behind them. "We come bearing gifts," Catherine declared, holding out a tray of sugar cookies.

"If you get food poisoning, blame Cath," Warrick put in with a smile.

"Come on in, guys," said Greg. "Catherine, Warrick, you both look great."

They nodded. "Thank God we weren't that close to the center of the blast," Warrick said. "Otherwise, who knows what could have happened."

"What did happen," Sara reminded them grimly, "to Henry and Mandy."

A strange quiet settled over the five of them and Greg bowed his head. "I still feel responsible for that," he whispered.

"Sources say it was Spiegelman who smuggled in the bomb," said Sara. "There was nothing you could have done, Greg."

"Is it wrong that a part of me regrets not leading him out to be shot?" Greg asked. "Not that he would have been... being part of their team and all."

Sara smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "You did the best you could with what you had. I don't know what I would have done in your position."

He returned the smile. "Does that mean you've forgiven me for lying to you?"

Her smile faded into a playful frown. "Don't hold your breath," she said, then caught sight of the pine tree in the corner and gasped. "Is this it?" she asked, walking towards it.

Greg turned. "Do you see any other naked trees in this place?"

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for inviting us to trim your tree for you," she said. "You know tree trimming parties are probably the smartest way to get out of the work. Fortunately for us, you'll be the one taking it all down again."

"Hey, I could invent a tree un-trimming party."

"She's right, Sanders," said Catherine striding forward and opening one of his boxes. "You'll be on your own for the cleanup."

Greg laughed as there was another knock at the door and he went to open it, finding Brass and Grissom standing there.

"Happy Hanukah!" Brass declared.

"I didn't know you were Jewish," said Greg.

Brass shrugged as he walked in. "I'm not Christian either. But I am an equal opportunity celebrator. Ooh, cookies!"

Greg laughed as he watched the detective move towards Catherine's cookies. He turned back to Grissom, whose face looked a little warm and his smile faded.

"How are you doing?" he asked, almost guiltily.

But Grissom forced a smile. "I'm OK, Greg," he assured the younger man. "I'm just tired."

"Griss..." He felt as if something awkward had grown between them since he had miraculously returned to life. He didn't know what to say, except for the all-encompassing, "I'm sorry."

But the older man placed a fatherly hand on Greg's shoulder. "You did well, Greg. You were in an awkward position and you did what you thought would be best for all of us. And it was a hard decision. I don't blame you. For anything."

These words warmed him better than anything, beyond the festive atmosphere, beyond the sound of Sara's laughter, or Nick's jovial demeanor, or Catherine's cookies, or Warrick's bright eyes, or Brass's jokes.

All was forgiven.

All was well.

And a new year was just on the horizon.

End Note: When I said I was tired of apologizing, I lied. Sorry for killing Henry and Mandy, but I felt that in a huge explosion like that someone needed to die. I kinda wrote myself into a corner with that plot twist. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I promise, Learn to Be Still's ending will be MUCH better.